


We Wear Secrets Like Armor

by LovelyThings, ricca_riot



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/M, Unless you're in the Hosnian system
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 06:26:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6144496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyThings/pseuds/LovelyThings, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricca_riot/pseuds/ricca_riot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phasma helps Hux rehearse his speech on the last day of the Republic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Wear Secrets Like Armor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trebia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trebia/gifts).



Her armor gleams on the rack in his quarters, complete save for one final piece. Hux’s reflection glints  in the polished surfaces as he removes his jacket. Securing it on a hanger in the wardrobe, he smoothes away a wrinkle with a flick of his hand and Phasma smiles as she crouches to undo the fastening on her greave. Even now, Hux’s posture is Academy-perfect. It’s just one of the things she loves about him, the straight spine that speaks of precision, determination, control. The boot slides off and she places it beside its mate under the rack before digging her toes into the warm, textured rug beneath her feet.

Hux unbuttons his trousers, slips them down and folds them with meticulous care. He catches her eye and gives her a slight smile as Phasma removes the tie from her hair, ruffles her fingers across the top of her scalp, and places it on the small shelf beside their gloves. The muscles of his shoulders move beneath his skin as he hangs the jacket and removes his undershirt, drops it into the laundry, and shuts the wardrobe door. She reaches out to rub a small circle into the side of his neck. He’s always tense, but today’s stress is atypical. “Is your address ready?”

His eyes fall closed and he sighs as she finds the right combination of pressure and rotation. “I’m giving it in two hours, love.”  She stops the massage as he opens his eyes, drops a quick kiss to her fingers. Setting an alarm on his chronometer, he crosses past her to place the watch on his bedside table. 

“Mmm,” Her mouth curls up in a smile. “Two whole hours.” He looks back at her, his eyebrow quirking as she toys with the zipper on her bodysuit. When he straightens, she runs her free hand up his chest, tipping her head in to kiss him, slow and sweet, savoring his lips against hers, before whispering, “Can I hear it?”

His eyes darken as one hand covers hers over the zip. The other slides over the smooth material of her suit, from her hip to her swell of her breast over her neck to the short, fine hair at her nape. Hux takes his time answering, pulling her back to him and sucking on her lower lip, nipping with sharp teeth. Phasma sighs at that, cups his cheek, smoothing against the stubble on his jaw. His pulse jumps under her fingers as they brush down his neck. She’s patient. He loves to perform for her, and she is always an appreciative, eager audience. His mouth is warm under her ear, the slickness of his tongue soothing the tease of teeth, his breath hot as he murmurs, “Today…” He shivers and kisses down her neck to the high collar of her bodysuit. 

“What about today?” Phasma rolls her head back, allowing him better access to her throat. The golden fire of his hair brushes her lips as she leans to kiss the shell of his ear. 

Under his hand, the zipper slides down a single, measured, inch. “Today,” he begins again, voice stronger as his lips trail along the newly exposed skin, “is the end of the Republic.”

His words raise the hairs on the back of her neck beneath his curled palm as her nipples pebble. She reaches down to trace the line of him, hard and steady, through his military issue underwear, and her caress makes him clench his teeth and hiss against her chest. Phasma locks her knees and looks down to watch the zip slide another two inches, falling further as he licks the skin underneath the fabric.  Releasing him, she threads her fingers through his hair, catching it as it falls out of its careful parting. 

Hux’s eyes burn as he leans in as he whispers into her skin. “The end of a regime,” he follows the slow descent of the zipper, pausing to nuzzle at the tiny curve of exposed flesh, “that acquiesces,” his tongue flashes out to lick a wet stripe along the bottom of her breast and Phasma’s stomach clenches as he exhales, hot against her, “to disorder.” 

He veers away from her bare skin to tease at her peaked nipples through the fabric of her suit, drawing gasps that make him grin up, sharp and wicked, before returning to his recitation. She holds his gaze as tugs the suit open to her solar plexus, leaning down to follow the zipper’s trail. “At this very moment,” he moves in tiny pecks, kissing down the exposed skin of her abdomen until the zipper stops in its track, just below her navel. 

“In a system far from here,” he continues, pulling back from an open-mouthed kiss pressed to the muscles of her stomach. Phasma strokes his jaw, relishing the prickles against her fingers, and he looks up from her fair skin to her face before he straightens, standing to  take her face in his hands. He kisses her again with a brilliant warmth, all passion and excitement, mouth sweet against hers. 

When he pulls away, she raises her eyebrows. “What is happening at this very moment in a system far from here?” Hearing his words from her mouth flips a switch in Hux and he surges forward, crushing her to him, one hand pressing between her shoulderblades, the other stroking her cheek. She returns his embrace, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, tangling a hand in his mussed hair. He groans as she  sucks lightly on his tongue, breathing heavily as she runs her fingertips down his neck, across his back, along his arms. 

His erection throbs against her hips as he breaks the kiss. “The New Republic  _ lies _ to the galaxy.” His kiss-swollen lips curl and there’s fire in his eyes that catches between her legs. She  _ loves _ it when he’s like this, ardent and eager, her beautiful zealot. Firm, capable hands ease the suit off her shoulders and he  steps back, slipping the material down her arms, over her hands, more elegantly than she’s ever been able to strip the damn thing off herself. It flops back to hang around her hips and he catches her hands in his brings her knuckles up, presses his lips to the exposed skin of one, “...While secretly supporting,” then to the other, “... the loathsome Resistance.” 

Hux nips at the sensitive skin inside her wrist and she’s aching to reciprocate but he’s not done and she’d hate to interrupt again. “This fierce machine,” the look he shoots her as he kisses up her arm is lascivious, “that you have built,” he licks along her clavicle, “upon which we stand,” one hand grasps at her hip, pulling her close so he can grind his hips into hers, “will bring an end to the Senate!” She pulls her shoulders back and his eyes drop to her nipples, taut and hard, and he swoops to take one into his mouth. Phasma keens as he moves from one breast to the other, looking up at her again as he declares, “To their cherished fleet!” 

Phasma brings his face back up to hers after he swirls his tongue around her other nipple, kissing along his jaw as he slips his thumbs into the waist of her suit to push it down, exposing the neatly trimmed patch of blonde between her legs. His touch, steady against her thighs, torturously slow down her legs, is calculated as though by a master engineer. He knows her body as she knows his, knows what will make her writhe, knows what will make her scream, what will make her shudder.  She shimmies the constricting garment down to her feet, turning to sit on the edge of his bed as he kneels before her. 

“All remaining systems will bow to the First Order.” Hux catches her ankle, kisses the arch of her foot as he pulls the stretchy material off. There’s power in his words, in his sparking gaze fixed on her face as he finishes undressing her. He hasn’t lost his composure and stands quietly to fold the suit over his arm into a neat, tight square before placing it under his chrono on the bedside table. 

Standing, Phasma reaches out and draws him back to her, running her hands up his arms and down his chest. She reaches lower, tracing the band of his underwear, planting a kiss against his hip as she bends  and he runs his fingers through the short fuzz on the side of her head, combing the longer hair on her crown. She sits back on the bed, slides his underwear down, and takes his hands. He steps out of the shorts and follows her onto the bed, crawling over her as she reclines. She spreads her legs and lifts them to wrap around his hips as he lowers himself to rest his weight on his forearms and strokes her cheek. She’s wet and he’s hard and she loves him, loves his precisely cut hair, his perfectly straight spine, his fervent devotion to his cause and to  _ her _ . His burning eyes trace the lines of her face and he is simultaneously  _ here _ and  _ somewhere else _ . Phasma lets herself be taken away with him, shuddering with pleasure as he finishes the speech.  

“And they will remember this as the last day of the Republic.” Hux murmurs the words against her lips, leaning in to catch her mouth again as he comes back to the present.

Phasma arches as he reaches between them, slipping slender fingers inside her without breaking their kiss as she fumbles for his cock. He’s twitching and leaking when she finds it, her eyes still shut as she splits her focus between the heel of his hand on her clit and the rhythm she’s setting with her fist around him. Sometimes he’ll duck between her thighs, lick and tease and fuck her with his tongue until she worries she’ll be too spent to turn out properly for parade. Sometimes she’ll fall to her knees before him, take his cock in her mouth and return the favor, making him pant and gasp and tangle his fingers in the long hair atop her head, but not today. After a few quick strokes, she uses her other hand to still his wrist and draw his fingers out before positioning the head of his cock at her entrance. Using her heels, she pulls him to her, and the slide, the stretch, the feeling of fullness makes her gasp into his mouth as he groans, deep and rough.

“Oh, my darling,” he sighs, pulling in a ragged breath against her ear as they move together, slow and steady and confident. She kisses his neck, up behind his ear, then draws the lobe into her mouth to suck and nibble, making him hiss again. It never gets old, that sound. She’d found it the first time they’d fucked, quick and clumsy cadets in a training room at the Academy just three days before graduation. She’d asked if he was looking forward to his new posting, at a base across the galaxy from hers, and he’d looked her in the eyes and said no, and she’d jumped on him. She still loves the noise, the quick inhalation, the way his nose wrinkles as he bares his teeth. She loves his precision, but she likes it when he loses control even more. His hips speed up, driving into her with more vigor, and she smiles into his hair.

She begins to whisper into his ear, little encouragements, sweet names, adorations and shared confidences collected over years together. These add fuel to the fire behind his eyes and he grabs one of her thighs, peeling her strong leg from around his hips, lifting it up over his shoulder to fuck deeper into her. He bites his lower lip, his eyes never leaving her face as she speaks aloud, calls him “my love,” “my only.” They agreed years ago, after multiple reassignments brought them back together, that they had no intention of stopping or letting anyone else know about what they have, and so she uses this time to say all the things she can’t, won’t, while on duty. Emotional attachments are forbidden within the First Order. It’s the only rule either of them has ever broken. Compartmentalization is key, but right now she can say whatever she wants, and so she does, and that freedom itself arouses her, helps draws tension inside her to a razor’s edge. Hux drinks it in, his hands roving her body to pinch a nipple or dig into the firm flesh of her ass, smoothing over her hard stomach and back down to her clit, hips snapping harder and faster as she praises him, lavishes him with her love. 

He’s always the quieter one during sex, only letting out gasps of pleasure or moaning her name, as if making up for all the talking he does elsewhere. Only when he’s close does his tongue loosen again, and as he works her clit, he starts responding to her words. Declarations of reverence and devotion tumble from his lips as he thrusts deeper still, rhythm stuttering. He looks at her like she’s precious, like she’s better than the most powerful of ships, better than an armada of  _ Starkillers _ . Then he shifts again, pounding his hipbones into her thighs to hit her over and over in that perfect, perfect spot, and she’s finished.

She comes like a star exploding, the long build up leading to waves of rippling pleasure that flow over her like a scorching solar wind. He fucks her through it but she wants him to come with her and the tiny part of her mind left working takes control of her mouth.

“Come for me, love,” she whispers, barely enough breath in her lungs to form the words. “Come, Hux.” He takes orders as well as he gives them. His eyes widen as his jaw drops and he clings to her hips with a final, bruising jerk of his hips. It works every time. His body bows, the muscles in his neck and shoulders standing out as he empties himself into her clutching cunt. 

He lets out a laughing breath, a single rasping exhalation, before flopping down on top of her. He breathes out hard through his nose as he kisses her shoulder, the tickling rasp of his stubble scratching as he moves his lips over her skin, lazy and worn out. Phasma's heart pounds in her chest, in her neck, around the warm wetness of him between her legs. His voice is a rumble against her chest as he continues worshiping her with his words. Letting out a long, satisfied sigh, she stretches up to press her palms against the headboard. He slips from her as she moves and she feels the loss, but he's smiling and then he's kissing her again, relaxed and sweet. She melts. She always does. He lifts a hand to cup the back of her head, running his fingers over her scalp through the buzzed short hair, and she smiles against his mouth.

They break apart to lay together, spent and sticky, his head on her broad shoulder, when his adulation finally peters out and he goes quiet again. She knows him well, better than anyone else, and she knows what his mind has turned back to. "It was a very good speech, my love. Fitting for the day."

He hums. "I think it should do well to inspire the troops." His eyelashes are so light they're almost transparent, and they brush her cheeks as he reaches up to tilt her face down to his, kisses her cheeks, her jaw, her nose.

“I’m sure it will,” Phasma laughs as he moves down her neck, kisses the muscles of her shoulder and chest, the tops of her breasts. He’s aiming lower when the shrill beeping of his alarm sounds from the table beside his bed.  

Hux sighs, dropping his head to her hip. “Duty calls.” Straightening, he gets to his knees and stops the alarm before turning back to sweep his eyes over her body. They linger on her face and another soft smile hides at the corner of his mouth.  “Up we get, darling.” He holds out both of his hands to her and she takes them, rises to her knees so she’s looking down at him, and kisses him again before they move together off the bed.  

She starts the shower and he climbs in while she uses the toilet. Then she joins him and they wash each other with practiced movements. He memorized just how much shampoo to portion out for her short hair during their first shower together and has never, not once, over-lathered her. Hux washes his own hair with brisk efficiency as she scrubs his back, across his shoulders and down his back, using her thumbs to press into the tense muscles under his shoulder blades, at the meeting of his shoulders, at the bend of his neck. They kiss under the showerhead, a quick peck as she rinses the soap from her hair, and he steps out before her. By the time she’s dry, he’s wrapped in a towel, pulling his heavy winter dress uniform out from the closet. They stand side by side and brush their teeth together, the sun of his brilliant red hair a contrast to her moon-white face with its penumbra of drying silver-blonde tendrils, returning their toothbrushes to their respective cups on either side of the sink when they finish.

In a drawer, she finds his straight razor, brush, and soap, and she sets them out while Hux wets a towel with steaming water. He rests it over his cheeks for a few moments before angling his chin for her. She shaves away his stubble, and with the hair goes much of his levity. It doesn’t bother her. This is how he is. He needs to get into the proper mindset if he’s to properly galvanize her Stormtroopers today. They are eager, ready to fight, and he will lead them well. He is strong. He is a good, worthy general, the best she could ask for. She flicks away the last of the soap and then uses the towel over his face before kissing his now smooth cheek. The smile shines in his eyes and that’s enough.

He helps her into her bodysuit, kissing each inch of her skin again as he hides it away, adding his own invisible armor to keep her safe, and then she turns her attention to his uniform. She selects a black winter undershirt for him from his closet, smoothing a wrinkle in the sleeve before he puts it on. He dons his trousers and she buttons them for him, making sure the creases are sharp and up to regulation after she tucks them into his boots. They always are, but it’s important to check. Whispering his speech under his breath as he shrugs on his jacket, she does up the hooks and tugs the tips of his collar straight and even, pressing a soft-lipped kiss to the sharp corner of his jaw. “This fierce machine which you have built-”

The thought of her ‘Troopers, his army, their regime moving together, gears meshing, giving structure to the chaos of the galaxy thrills something inside her. “I like that,” she tells him, running her fingers through his hair. “What comes next? Bringing an end to the Senate?” He nods, closes his eyes under her hand. “Very stirring. Unifying.” She fetches his belt, her footfalls soft on the polished floor and plush carpet through the pads on the bottom of her suit, and fastens it around his waist.

Catching her hands as they walk to the armor rack, he holds them for a moment, their fingers entwined, slim and sturdy, elegant and strong, before reaching to slip on his gloves.  He rarely touches her armor with his bare hands, not if he doesn’t have a full afternoon free to polish away the smudges, and she likes that about him. He plans. He notices. He keeps his shirts folded into precise squares. He acts with thought and with care.

He starts at her feet, crouching to slide her boots up her calves and fastening the plates over her shins, fingers skimming along the fabric of the suit underneath.  Still rehearsing, he looks up as he secures the armor in place over her thigh. “To their cherished,” Hux stops to press a kiss to the inside of her leg and she smiles, traces the line of his nose with her finger, “fleet.” The armor makes her feel beautiful, strong, powerful, and he knows this, cradling each piece with reverence and care. “All remaining systems…” He rises up her body, adding each piece in layers so it protects and enhances her until all that is left is the articulated breastplate, which settles with a click as he locks it. 

She gathers her hair into it’s small tail, loops it with a band to keep it in place, but she doesn’t reach for the helmet yet.  Hux has her cape and throws it over her shoulders with a flourish. He’s always had a bit of a flare for the dramatic, and it makes her smile. As he closes the pin at her shoulder, he leans to kiss the corner of her mouth before stepping away. “Your hair is still a mess.” It gleams in the light of the ‘fresher like a dying star, damp and mussed.  He looks over her shoulder to the mirror and leans to get a comb from the drawer. 

As he fixes his hair, she finds his greatcoat, smooths a hand from the First Order insignia at the shoulder down to the bands on the sleeve. Once his hair is tamed, part perfect and sharp, she stands behind him to drape the coat around his shoulders. “The last day of the republic,” she says, voice sure and clear, lips just brushing his ear. “A glorious day for our cause. No one in the galaxy will forget this day, forget our power, forget us. None can stand against the might of the First Order.”

Hux turns in her arms, back stiff and chest high, the model of parade ground perfection.  She follows his example, straightening to her full height. Proud, strong, disciplined, respected, feared. As she should be. As she must be.

They move together to the door, and he puts on his hat and passes her the helmet. Before she puts it on, they lock eyes. The tenderness is still there, as it always will be, but it’s retreating behind a hardness, a fanatical gleam in its place. He will do well, and the ‘Troopers will love him for it, just as she does.  She slips the chrome over her head, rolls her neck and squares her shoulders. “It’s time, General.”

He opens the door, his gloved hand clenching on the handle as he gestures for her to lead. “After you, Captain.”

**Author's Note:**

> We started working on this around chapter 45 of _[Interstellar Transmissions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5496170/chapters/12697478)_. After the enthusiastic response we got to our unsubtle hints of Phux in Chapter 52, we knew we had to make it public. Gifted to our beloved friend [Trebia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Trebia/pseuds/Trebia), who screamed for it loudest of all.


End file.
